


Ouroboros

by grimcognito



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimcognito/pseuds/grimcognito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate is fickle, life is cruel, and second chances are a rare and precious thing. </p><p>Or, Thranduil and Dain might be able to finally get their shit together and find the happy ending they couldn't have the first time around. If they don't kill each other first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all just a clear sign that I think way too hard about my crack pairings. Come join me on this lonely ship. I can't be the only one who thought that little battlefield trash-talk scene sounded like two bitter exes, right? No? Just me? Oh well.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, so please feel free to point out any misspellings or bad grammar so I can fix it, thanks!

Dain brushed back the heavy canvas of the secluded healer’s tent and squinted against the sudden change from sunlight to dimness. His eyes adjusted quickly enough, and he saw Thorin, lying too still under a thick blanket. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it rushed out on a relieved sigh when Thorin’s chest rose and fell slightly with breath of his own. His ribs creaked in protest and Dain cursed as pain rushed out in a starburst across his side and torso. An orc’s axe had caught him in the side, and while his thick armor had saved him, the blow had dented it heavily, crushing it inward on him. There’d been no time to think about it in the midst of battle, and too much to do after as he rallied those still standing, but now there was little to distract him from it.

He fought with damaged buckles and straps, wrestled the plate armor from himself and dropped it to the ground beside the cot that fussy old healer, Oin, had all but threatened to tie him to. Honestly, a bit of blood, one tiny head wound, really, and healers had a fit. He did admit it was a bit easier to breathe now, and he wouldn’t be adverse to some salve for the mass of bruising that promised to be spectacular.

“Yer missin’ out on all the grunt work, you lazy lump.” He grumbled, no heat to the words as he side-eyed Thorin’s sleeping self. “Always with the dramatics, then vanishing soon as the dirty work starts, eh?” He tugged his tunic off in slow, painful jerks so he could rub in the salve, once he found the damned jar of it.

Thorin slept on, oblivious to the slights against his reputation, and Dain snorted, then smiled slightly. “It’s good to see you, you sodding idiot. Keep the heroics down for a bit till yer guts can stay where they’re supposed t’be and you might be king yet.” He reached out to pat Thorin’s shoulder, needing the reassurance, but his hand froze in the air when he spotted the small figure with messy curls slumped against the other side of the cot, previously hidden by Thorin’s body. One small hand clutched at Thorin’s, even in sleep. Dain’s brows rose in surprise and he moved to see who exactly this little fellow was when the canvas was roughly shoved open. He turned with a scowl, wondering if that healer was back to try lecturing him again, but any words he had died in his throat before they reached his tongue.

Thranduil seemed just as surprised, for once frozen in a pose that wasn’t oozing cold elegance. The elf had to hunch slightly in order to keep from knocking his head against the top of the tent. Dain took some measure of bitter amusement at that, and glared up at him. “What the hell do you think yer doin’ here, you overgrown pixie!? Out with you! I have a mind to beat some sense into you once and for all!”

Lips curled in a familiar sneer, Thranduil looked down his nose at Dain, his bearing regal even in this humble and cramped tent. There was a soft gasp behind Dain, and they both ignored it. “I certainly would not have subjected myself to your company if it could be avoided, but it would seem that a certain King Under the Mountain is… indisposed. If I could simply walk away from this, I would do so gladly, but there is much to be done.”

Dain snorted and tossed his head dismissively, planting fists on his hips. Something about the motion caught Thranduil’s attention and his eyes went wide, mouth dropping open around a tiny, strangled sound. Though Thraduil hadn’t moved, his stance suddenly seemed unsure, off balance and almost awkward. Dain reached up to his chest, one broad palm covering the small, sculpted metal hung over his heart and froze. He’d forgotten all about his lack of a tunic, and the pendant was just long enough not to be hidden by his beard. The curve of tiny antlers, centered with a diamond to create the shape of a stag’s head, pressed into his roughened skin and for a long moment, they just stared at each other, thrown too far off balance and suddenly lacking in words.

“You,” Thranduil started, then trailed off, as if unable to piece together the words in his mind. He visibly tried to gather his composure, but each time it crumbled just enough to ruin the intended effect. “You,” He tried again after some altogether very un-kingly gaping, this time with a vague gesture that, really, was about as useless as could be.

“Aye. Me.” Dain said slowly, amusement at Thranduil’s loss of composure starting to outweigh the horror of revealing the secret he’d kept for decades, just enough to make him brave (or perhaps stupid) enough to set his jaw and drop his hand. He’d be lying if he said he was anything other than gratified by the way Thranduil couldn’t seem to drag his gaze from the pendant, it’s delicate pale silver and almost fragile-looking design a stark contrast to anything else Dain wore, nothing like the solid, bold lines of Dwarven workmanship.

Pale blue eyes finally moved up to meet his own. “You kept it?” It sounded like Thranduil had meant for it to be a statement, but the uncertainty in his tone warped it into a question and he pressed his lips together in a firm line, as if to keep more unwanted words from escaping. Dain refused to back down, and his stance stayed strong but he cleared his throat roughly and wondered where all of his sense had vanished to. He’d memorized speeches in case this moment happened, all the things he’d loose upon the fool in front of him, but the words scattered from his mind like wood shavings in a windstorm.

Instead he gathered himself up in decades of anger, of pain, and glared so venomously Thranduil very nearly stepped back. “Not that I should have, you pompous, twig-eating little shit. I’ve been tempted to melt this down in whatever forge was closest too many times to count, but just because you tree-shaggers like to flounce around doesn’t me we dwarves do. It’s call our One for a damned reason.” He growled.

Thranduil’s face went slack with shock, his hand twitching at his side as if he were holding back from reaching out. “You can’t mean--” There was a shifting movement behind Dain and Thranduil’s attention snapped to it, eyes narrowing as he stared over Dain’s shoulder, and the moment between them was lost. Thranduil drew himself up as much as he could in the low tent and his cold and distant demeanor resettled around him like a mantle. “I have my kin to tend to, contact me when your own are ready to hold court.”

With that, he was gone in a flourish of fine silks and pale metal armor. Dain clenched his fists at his side and bared his teeth at the canvas flaps. When he felt a tiny bit less like crushing the skull of the next person he saw, he glared over his shoulder at the, well, that certainly wasn’t a Dwarf. He’d suspect a human, but this was half the size of a Man, though he had the face of one fully grown. He’d heard of Halflings, was this one of them? “Who the hell are you?”

“Ah, um, well, I’m Bilbo. Baggins. Of Bag End.” The halfling, Bilbo, replied. “At your service, ah, Lord Dain.” He gave a nervous little bow of his head, but didn’t stand, eyes only half aware as they darted between Dain and the entryway. His hands clutched one of Thorin’s slack ones tightly between them. Well now, there was surely a story to be had there.

Dain raised a brow, and turned to face this Bilbo fully, ignoring the pull of strained muscles. “And what exactly are you doin’ in here, Mister Baggins?” He asked with no short supply of suspicion.

The halfling met his glare with a tired but determined gaze and held his head high. “I was hired to be part of Thorin’s company, and I am here to make sure he makes it to see his quest fulfilled.”

There was a fierceness to his small self, an underlying tension of someone ready to defend their actions to the end, and Dain glanced between that soft face--jaw set and eyes full of banked fear--and the tight grip of hands. He stared for a moment, then shook his head with a weary grunt. This was not the time, and he was not in the mood or the shape to deal with it. “Well then, be useful and point out the salve for me. I can’t spend the day standing around half dressed and turning black an’ blue.”

Bilbo blinked, thrown off by the swift change of topic, mouth moving wordlessly for a moment before he pointed at a squat jar near Thorin’s bedside. Pleased he wouldn’t have to go searching for it, Dain scooped some of the thick salve onto his fingers and smeared it across the worst of the bruising, huffing as he saw Bilbo wince in sympathy at the mottled mess of his torso. “So what happened to Thorin? Something right nasty to have him laid low like this. Tell me he cut the bastard down at least.”

“Azog.” Bilbo said, swallowing thickly and eyes going distant. His skin was pale, dark circles under his eyes and Dain grit his teeth, almost regretting his words. This was no warrior, and he hadn’t meant to dig into fresh wounds. He’d seen Azog’s skewered corpse, his blood slowly being washed away in the sluggish flow of water under the ice. Fitting that Thorin was the one to take him out, and he could only hope his cousin lived long enough to celebrate the victory. “Azog stabbed him. Oin said no major organs were struck, but- but- it’s still-”

“Aye, I know it, lad.” Dain interrupted the broken speech. “He’s more stubborn than a mule, if anyone could pull through, Thorin would, just to spite death.”

That got him a watery chuckle, Bilbo watching Thorin once more as he spoke, voice soft. “He is rather contrary.” He looked back up at Dain, eyes pausing on the stag pendant curiously, though he was wise enough to keep his trap shut about it.

It wasn’t until Dain had dragged his layers of clothing back on, leaving his dented armor but easing into his chainmail once more, that Bilbo completely came back to himself. He suddenly shook himself out of his thoughts and then turned an amusing shade of red as he heaved to his feet and bowed deeply, bent over his and Thorin’s hands. “My apologies! I don’t know where my manners are, Lord Dain.”

Snorting, Dain waved away the belated formality. “Hardly my first care at the moment, lad. You have a mind for where the young brothers are? I pray they made it through the battle.”

Bilbo straightened with a worried frown. “Yes, they were brought in. Fili should be nearby, and Kili with him, in the next tent over. He’s… he’s in bad shape, but there's a good chance he'll pull through."

"Heartening t'hear, laddie. I'll take a look in on them, but first," he eyed Bilbo, remembering just in time that crossing his arms would be unadvised at the moment. "I'm no fool, I know what that mountain, and the treasure inside of it can drive a king to. What happened in there?"

Bilbo tensed, lips pale as he pressed them together, his small frame trembling. "A sickness, Lord Dain. A terrible sickness."

As he'd feared, then. Dain sighed, eased his aching self down onto the nearby cot and settled in for the full story, whether he liked it or not. Thorin had done what his grandfather could not, had broken through the gold-curse enough to lead their defense in the end, and Dain could only hope he'd broken the curse upon the line of Durin. If not, this kingdom would fall once more before it was fully reclaimed. "Go on then, Mister Baggins," he urged, gruff voice kind as he could manage. "This is one wound that'll fester if not examined sooner rather than later."

It took a few shaky breaths, but Bilbo nodded, sank back down beside the bed, and began to speak.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some matters to clear up between the three kingdoms before discussion of trade can begin and Bard might just regret his offer to host the diplomatic talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to jump right into the relationship shenanigans, but plot reared up and bit me instead. I needed to resolve the issues of Bard still having the Arkenstone, Thranduil still having Thorin's sword and finally settling the elven jewels nonsense. 
> 
> I edited this, but I have a bad track record with things like spelling and proper grammar, so please feel free to point out any mistakes I didn't catch. Thank you!

The next time Dáin saw Thranduil was in the city of Dale. Neither king would come at the beck and call of the other, too much bad blood between them to stand in each other's courts. Lord Bard--as the man insisted he was no King, though he would be soon enough--, and a sensible man he was, Dáin thought begrudgingly, had offered to host diplomatic relations under the condition that none were allowed to declare war while on his land. As much as Dáin hated the idea of someone playing nanny to his choices as Regent while Thorin recovered from his wounds, he had to agree. The urge to plant his fist right in Thranduil's smug, pretty face might overwhelm his more sensible duties as temporary King Under the Mountain. 

On the short ride into Dale, he'd amused himself with wonderings at whether Thranduil, after the loss of his steed, would ride a lowly horse, as a man would, or if he would simply command his people to carry him upon their shoulders. Elves only seemed to grow more foolish with age, and Thranduil was a prime example. 

He was sorely tempted to tear into Thranduil as he'd not had the opportunity to do before, to rage and spit, but he had a kingdom to think of, his own Iron Hill dwarves mingled with Thorin's company and all those who were returning home after so long a parting. Dwarrow were trickling in, more and more each day, and disparaging words, no matter how much they were deserved, could bring only unwanted hardship. Thranduil was predictable at least. At the first sign of disrespect, he'd use it as an excuse to hide away in his forest. No, Dáin had a much better plan, one that would be most satisfying to execute.

Dale was still a city of more ruin than life, more so now that the orc forces had swept through, but there were clear efforts gone into rebuilding. The structures that could be saved were supported by beams here and there, ones that could not were being broken down to use as material for the new. Everyone worked, the population small but with a spirit not unlike the resilience of Dwarves. No doubt, trade would be open and flowing once more when the city was rebuilt now that the looming shadow of Smaug's presence was gone. 

They met under a large tent, impossible to miss it's yellow eyesore in the upper levels of the city. It was guarded by Elves and Dáin briefly mourned not being able to see whatever overly grand and pompous arrival Thranduil had surely made. He gave a brief signal and his own Dwarven entourage moved to stand beside the elves, both parties sharing brief uneasy looks before their training set back in. 

He stepped into the airy tent, helmet under his arm, and very nearly walked right back out at the sight of Thranduil and Lord Bard standing close and looking far too pleased in each other's company. Whether he'd go back to take his reigns or to grab his war hammer was yet to be decided. It was the look of relief that Bard had in his eyes upon seeing Dáin that helped steel his resolve. 

"Lord Dáin! I am glad to see you in good health." Bard stepped away from the maps, spread over a wide table in the center of the tent, to greet him. Thranduil straightened with his usual poise, and perhaps a bit of unhappy stiffness as he looked down his nose at him. 

"That I am, Lord Bard, and happy to see you in one piece as well." Dáin replied with gruff politeness and a nod. He clasped forearms with Bard, then turned to Thranduil. "And greetin's to you, King Thranduil, Son of Oropher. More stunning than starlight, as usual." 

Bard made a small strangled sound that he covered with a slight cough while Thranduil set his shoulders as if ready to lash out in response to insult, then proceeded to look a bit lost. The compliment had been frank, not sarcastic, for Dáin was Dwarf enough to admit his eyes worked as well as ever and the elven king would always make a fine sight. The decades and the issues between them made Thranduil cold and distant, as it made Dáin burn with anger, but what was starlight other than a cold beauty? 

They may never have what they'd once wished for, but Thranduil was, and would forever be his One. He could compliment him if he wished. The deeply satisfying way it scattered Thranduil's carefully cultivated expectations and left him floundering for a response was a bonus.

"Thank you." Thranduil finally managed, clearly suspicious, but the formalities he loved to hold himself to meant he had to keep up the polite dignities. "You look... healthy, Lord Dáin, Son of Nain."

Bard had backed away to the table with wine and poured a splash into a glass for himself. Dáin smirked and climbed the wooden steps set beside the map table, glad he wouldn't have to demand one if Bard had forgotten the tables of Elves and Men were too damned tall. "Being in the presence of such beauty does the constitution good, I've found." He said, with an appraising look that made it undeniably clear exactly what beauty he spoke of. 

Bard tipped more wine into his glass, his expression pained. 

"I don't know what game you play at, Dwarf, but I will have none of your mockery." Thranduil hissed, chin high and hands carefully still.

"I offer no mockery. Tell me, do you sense any deceit in my words?" Dáin said calmly. When Thranduil could give no reply other than a narrowing of his eyes, Dáin looked at the maps, one hand bracing his weight on the table. "These are the possible trade routes, I presume." 

"Correct, Lord Dáin," Bard jumped in, hasty to grab at any new subject as he set aside his drink and motioned over the closest map. "With Erebor reclaimed and the dragon dead, we are once more a prime centerpoint for trade. We hold the main passage between a kingdom of Dwarven craft, the Greenwood, and this city, which was once one of the greatest trade markets of the world. It can be once more, if we can all agree to keep peace between us." He said the last with pointed emphasis.

"We've a lot of rebuilding to do as well, Lord Bard, but I can see that a stone mason or two be sent your way. We once had a strong alliance, we may have that once more. Of course, there is the issue of supposed debts." Dáin leveled Bard with a glare and the man met it with a neutral look and a nod. He couldn't remember the last time he'd met a man who acted so sodding _reasonable_.

"Supposed?" Thranduil said, voice the closest to a growl Dáin he ever heard it come to. "There is nothing _supposed_ about what is owed to my people." 

Dáin tipped his chin in a nod at the outburst, staying calm despite his desire to yell right back. Fury flickered across Thranduil's expression before he managed to smooth it over once more and Dáin wondered if this was why Bard worked so hard to play nice. It was satisfying to see the unflappable elven king so off balance every time he didn't react as expected. Dáin doubted he'd be able to hold his temper forever, but for now, he'd take his victories where he could. "Aye, and if Your Timelessness would have a bit o' patience, I could finish what I was saying." 

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a flat fold of leather, laying it out and opening it with a careful touch to reveal the delicate, aged parchment folded within. Bard tilted his head, curious, but Thranduil went so still it made Dáin wonder if he still breathed. Unfolding the parchment was delicate work, and Dáin felt unsuited to the task with his heavy, war-roughened hands, but soon enough he had it spread out over nearly the entire width of the table. Slim fingers traced lightly over a line of ink, the print tiny enough that Balin had needed a set of spectacles to properly translate it. 

"I would not have thought that this still existed." Thranduil said, voice soft. 

Bard looked between them, then down at the parchment. He mouthed the words of Old Westron soundlessly, brow furrowed. "This is a contract? The language, it's Westron, but not as I know it."

"Long before your time, Lord Bard." Dáin said distractedly, his attention on Thranduil, who was staring at the signatures sealing the contract; Thranduil's own, along with King Thrór's and their witnesses. "T'was an agreement of trade. We hold possession of treasured Elven heirloom jewels, but none could settle on how we came to hold them. King Thrór set this contract in place to settle matters. In return for ten seasons of trade--food from the Greenwood while we continued work on Erebor-- Thrór would return the gems."

Hand settling on the contract, as if afraid Dáin would try and pull it away, Thranduil glared down at him even as he spoke to Bard. "I fulfilled my half of the bargain, but at the end of ten seasons, Thrór betrayed his promise, his greed overcoming any honor he might have had left." Dáin bristled at that but couldn't argue it, and Thranduil continued with a touch of familiar smug superiority. "I am surprised this contract wasn't destroyed. You may have some trace of honor left, if your King can prove himself better than his grandfather by keeping his word."

"You have a Hobbit to thank for this. Without the efforts made by Master Bilbo and a young scribe, this very contract might have remained lost in the archives until it turned to dust." It was true. Thorin made for a terrible patient when he was actually awake, and his hobbit kept him distracted by drawing out details of alliances, both strong and broken. The two had a whole slew of issues to work out between them, and one was the decision of what to do with the Arkenstone, still in Bard's possession. Thorin had a mind to take it back and spurn the King of Mirkwood, and Dáin had been sorely tempted to agree, but they could not afford to repeat Thrór 's mistakes. Thorin grudgingly spoke of a contract that was broken, and after that, if Bilbo was not at the King's bedside, he was sifting through the archives with Ori, the young scribe who'd been part of Thorin's company.

Three weeks it had taken, but they did find it, tucked away in an aged tome. Thorin had looked more pained by the decision to uphold the agreement than he had his own wounds and Dáin couldn't blame him. 

Thranduil looked like he'd bitten something unpleasant and was trying to hide it. "The Hobbit. Of course." He muttered. How odd. Of any of them, Dain assumed that Thranduil would hold Bilbo in slightly higher regard than the rest of Thorin's company. Or Dwarves in general. He'd have to ask Bilbo about it later.

"And you'll get your gems, but if we are to speak of returning property to rightful owners, there is the matter of a certain sword." He raised an eyebrow at Thranduil, who knew damned well what he was talking about.

Oh ho, and wasn't that look of pure fire he got in return. "That sword is of Elvish make!"

"Aye, perhaps, but it was claimed from a troll cave and fairly won. Shall I instead demand it in recompense for the unjust way the company of Thorin Oakenshield was treated while in your care?" Dáin asked archly. 

Thranduil looked ready to attempt strangling Dáin, but before he could do more than open his mouth, Bard cut in with a voice usually reserved for overly-rowdy children. "What, exactly, happened?" 

They both paused, having all but forgotten his presence. Dáin pushed back from where he'd been leaning forward across the table. "Do tell, King Thranduil, how the Thorin and his company were locked in the dungeons like common criminals."

"Perhaps if they had not been acting like sneaky little thieves, I would not have to treat them as such." Thranduil hissed at him before turning to Bard. "The Dwarves traveled uninvited through my kingdom and were brought before me when my son found them. I offered aid in return for the jewels I am still owed, and he refused."

"So you threw him in the dungeon." Bard stated, tone too flat to be a question. "Why not simply send them on their way?"

"Because I wished to prevent the very events that came to be! Without that single black arrow, and the missing scale on Smaug's hide, _nothing_ would have stopped him. His destruction would have leveled so much more than your town, Lord Bard." The look in his eyes was haunted, and as much as Dáin loved to unravel Thranduil's perfect composure, this was not what he'd intended. 

Thranduil raised a hand as if to touch it to his cheek, but dropped it before he finished the action. He seemed to shake himself from whatever memory had been dredged up. "They woke a dragon, brought an army of orcs upon this land and cost everyone far too many lives. For all that, I would do the same again, and make sure they did not escape." 

"How _dare_ \--"

Bard was quick enough to keep Dáin from speaking his mind on that. "I hear your view, and you make a good point, but neither side is free of all blame. You were ready to start a war over jewels, were you not? I was desperate enough to do whatever I must to in order to get my people what they needed to survive. We all had a part in this, though I dare say both of your peoples have a much deeper history than mine."

Dáin was sure Thranduil would turn his sharp tongue on the man, as he did with anyone who so much as implied he was wrong about anything, but much to his surprise (and perhaps a bit of disgruntlement) Thranduil merely set his jaw and took a slow breath. Bard continued when he was sure no one was about to erupt into hysterics. Humans did always assume the worst. "If Lord Dáin speaks the truth, and this sword is rightly King Thorin's by virtue of his claim, then it should be returned. As should the jewels which are very obviously owed to King Thranduil." 

"And you, Lord Bard? You speak like a man not nearly as troubled by lack of gold than you should be." Dáin asked him, not caring one whit for his suspicious tone. No one trustworthy stayed this calm during diplomatic talks. Mahal's beard, no one stayed calm during these things period. 

Bard smiled wryly, too sodding reasonable by far. "Master Biblo was kind enough to send out a portion of his share to help rebuild while we continued negotiations. I have your Arkenstone to return to you, as promised. I must ask if you have a plan for it. This.. gold-sickness, the Arkenstone made it worse, is that correct?" He looked more than a bit troubled by the thought.

"Aye, that is so. But the stone is to be destroyed, on order of the King. If we thought for one moment it would be safe, we would return it to the mountain whence it came, but every fool with a pickaxe would be diggin' for it given half a chance. No, the curse upon that stone ends where it began." He'd be there to make sure the madness didn't take Thorin's mind again, and that the task was followed through to the end. Even if he had to smash the cursed thing himself. 

Thranduil's disbelieving snort went mostly ignored, Dáin growling into his beard at the noise, and Bard clapped his hands together with a note of finality. "Are we agreed then, my friends? We make our trades and we start anew with clear minds and clean slates." 

With that, he motioned a guard inside. The young man carried a small, locked chest. Bard took it and set it on the table, careful not to drag it over the delicate parchment of the contract. He pulled a key from a string around his neck and opened the chest, flicking aside the cloth bunched inside to reveal the unmistakable glow and sparkle of the Arkenstone. Just long enough to show his word was true, then he shut it once more, setting the key on top of the chest once he locked it. Stepping back, he set his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows at the two of them. 

Dáin wanted to dislike the man, he really did, but the idea of having an ally that didn't play at the usual political games was too good to waste on petty grudges. Lord Bard spoke plainly and clearly wanted this to be done with as quickly as the rest of them. Well, maybe not Thranduil, who would probably stand around arguing and drinking his poncy wine until the rest of them died of old age, but that just made the quicker method all the more appealing. "As ye say. Let's settle this once and for all."

He called for his own guard while Thranduil did the same. Two sturdy Dwarrow carried a large chest between them as they entered from one side, while an elf came from the other, holding a sheathed sword on upturned palms. There went Dáin's half-formed hope that Thranduil would have to return home to retrieve it like a shamed child with a stolen toy. 

Not that Thranduil seemed to care for the sword at the moment, distractedly signaling with a flick of his hand for them to pass it over to Dáin as he swept toward the chest. For the briefest moment, it seemed Thranduil’s knees might buckle when the chest was opened and Dáin barely felt the weight of Orcrist in his hands as he watched an expression of sheer wonder thaw Thranduil’s cold demeanor. 

He forced his eyes away from the sight, coughing to clear his throat a little and glaring at Bard’s knowing look. It was one thing to get up in arms over seeing his One cozied up to a man, but he was not about to become jealous of _jewels_ for Mahal’s sake. It was a bitter draught to swallow though, being faced with a sight he’d never have the honor of bringing about himself. Nothing for it but to keep moving forward. 

“If that’s that and all accounts are settled, let’s get on with this then.” He refolded the contract and spread his hands over the maps beneath. “I hope ye’ve got somethin’ other than wine to get us through the day.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I am apparently so blind I missed the fact that the sword Legolas threw at the orc to save Thorin was Orcrist. Which negates a good chunk of the previous chapter. *hides face in hands* Let's just say Legolas went and retrieved it while the battle clean-up was happening, yeah? Yeah. 
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU to all of the wonderful people taking the time to leave kudos and comments, y'all are so awesome and you make my day!

The talks went as smoothly as they could with three very different mindsets trapped under a tent for several days, but it all came down to the fact that there was only so much to be done while three kingdoms were still burying their dead and rebuilding. Truces were made, treaties outlined for scribes to set to work on, and they three parted ways under the agreement that they would meet again in one month’s time. In the Greenwood no less. Dáin had only agreed to that after it was made very clear the following talks would take place in Erebor, and hopefully by then, Thorin’s sorry skewered self would be healed enough to take the brunt of these politics. 

Much to his surprise, Thranduil did not head toward the forest, but travelled with Dáin and his guard on the path to Erebor. Thranduil was mounted on his stag, this one with slightly less impressive antlers than his former steed, though where Thranduil was breeding the massive things was a mystery. Were all of the animals in that forest disturbingly huge? He’d heard of the beastly spiders already, what else might be roaming the place? Perhaps some things were better left unasked. 

“Ye plan on takin’ a tour of Erebor, King Thranduil? Dinnae think you’d want to risk bringin’ them jewels anywhere near the kingdom that was their prison for so long.” He said as Bella kept up easily with the sedate pace Thranduil set, despite his stag’s long legs. He didn’t bother looking up at the other king, all it would get him was an aching neck. Gorgeous his One may be, but Dáin had no need to be staring up his nostrils. 

It did mean he missed out on whatever slight expressions might cross Thranduil’s face when he answered. “I will not linger, rest assured. I merely come to retrieve a wayward Captain of the Guard that has taken a fancy to one of the princes. Her banishment has been lifted, and it is time she returned to her duties.”

Dáin frowned to himself as he thought about it. “The redhead?” Must be, Kíli was the only one with an elf by his bedside, under the guise of helping the healers along with the small faction of elves sent to help with the wounded. A gesture of goodwill (or just good politics) that gave Thorin no suitable excuse to deny the request for talks between the three kingdoms. Loathe as he was to admit it, without the food and aid of the elves, Erebor’s struggles would be doubled. “She and Prince Kíli do have that besotted look about them. I take it her banishment was the result of daring to give her heart to a dwarf. Such a crime, that.”

“Her banishment had little to do with her heart and more to do with her inability to follow direct orders, as befitting her station. She also had the audacity to raise a weapon against me in threat.”

“Yet her banishment was lifted?” Dáin was surprised at that. The lass should be lucky to get away with her life, much less be welcomed back into her kingdom. He slanted a look up at Thranduil, who merely stared ahead. 

“I did not say she would go without punishment, but whatever you might think of me, I am not a cruel king. She did as her heart commanded, and it was made clear that hers was not some childish infatuation. I have lost too many to turn my back on those left.” There was a weight to his words, not unlike when Thranduil had spoken of dragons and ruin. It seemed to press down on him more than Dáin would have suspected. 

“We all bury more than we should have to. Every life lost in battle is one too many.” He said carefully, choosing not to point out that Thranduil had been the first to march in a blatant intimidation tactic for a single chest of jewels. Never let it be said that Dáin Ironfoot didn’t know how to choose his battles. 

It was a long time before Thranduil answered. Long enough that Dáin had simply assumed he’d grown bored of the conversation. "Of all the soldiers in my army, over half of them were wed. What do you know of Elven love, Lord Dáin?" 

Hands tightening on his reigns, Dáin carefully didn't react. "Considerin' the one and only dally I had was with an elf that was very tight-lipped about such things, not much at all." 

Thranduil paused at that, and Dáin could imagine the way his lips thinned and his jaw set. His voice was soft, but tense. "When we love, we do so with all of ourselves. We give our hearts for another to hold, and if they die," his breath seemed to catch and Dáin looked up. Atch, that was a face to hurt the heart. Thranduil looked as close to breaking as he'd ever seen him, and though it was quickly veiled once more, he clenched his hands so tight Dáin worried his palms would bleed. "For every soldier felled by battle, there may be another who dies of anguish no matter how safe they are within the borders of my realm. Even as we speak, more graves must be prepared. I can feel their suffering, _anoren_. I watch as they die."

Voice thick with grief by the end, it seemed Thranduil's slip went unnoticed by him, but Dáin hadn't heard that word in a long time. He never expected to hear it again either, except in memories tucked away in the back of his mind. If only it hadn't been a gold vein in a collapsed mine. He gave solemn condolences, sincere in his words even as he barely heard himself say them past the rushing of his own thoughts. 

It was not unheard of for a dwarf to take their life, or to march into battle with no thought of return, when their fated was no longer among the living, but it was not common by any means. Dwarrow would mourn to the end of their days, hold the love they had close to hearts that were hardened by loss, and keep moving forward, for they knew they would be reunited one day. Death was a tragic parting, but not a final one. 

An elf was not a dwarf, there were no stone Halls waiting for them, and as far as Dáin knew, ghosts could not build ships to sail. He could hardly expect the dead to be permitted into a land named _the Undying_. So, where then did the souls of elves go in death? Dáin did not know, and he did not ask. The rest of their trip to the Lonely Mountain was spent in silence. 

When they arrived at the gates, Thranduil was met by his son, Legolas, and Dáin was quickly dragged back into the affairs and endless list of problems to be attended to. He did not look back after he bid Thranduil farewell, despite the rudeness of abandoning a visiting king at the gates with the guards and stable hands, but he couldn't stand to be in his presence and met the call of his duties with a shameful sense of relief. 

He could not outrun his own thoughts, though he did his best to crowd them out, and he had a neigh endless supply of things to think about with the rebuilding and repopulating of Erebor. Nevertheless, even the steadfast and sturdy Dáin Ironfoot had to rest, and unwelcomed thoughts plagued his mind once more. Memories of years long past pulled at him as he made for Thorin's rooms, Bilbo pleased beyond measure that his plans had worked when Dáin gave his report. Thorin had held Orcrist with reverence even as he complained about pretty much everything else. Dáin was amused and gruff in turn, and thoroughly intrigued at the pink that spread over Bilbo's cheeks and ears at the mention of Thranduil's impression of him. 

"Oh dear. Yes, I supposed he would still be put out about that whole business. I've heard his highness is, ah, one to hold a grudge for quite a while." Bilbo fretted while Thorin laughed, deep and booming with his head thrown back. 

"Aye, that's a story best saved for a time when we all have the energy to enjoy it in full." Thorin said once he'd quieted, the two of them smiling at each other. 

Dáin coughed and smirked when they startled a bit. "So be it. I feel as worn out a you look, Thorin, and that's no small feat." 

Bilbo bit his lip against a smile when Thorin scowled and waved Dáin away when he merely grinned in response. "Out with you then, maybe next time you'll have some respect when I see you." 

Dáin nodded solemnly as he stood to leave. "My apologies. Y'look terrible, _your Highness_." 

Bilbo's laughter trailed him out of the room. 

His own mirth was short-lived, and once his fineries were shucked off until the next day, he settled into the plush--if still a bit dusty--chair in front of the fire someone had already set, and sighed. He let his mind wander as he stared into the flames, a goblet of spiced ale untouched on the table by his side. 

_What do you know of Elven love? ___

Clearly, nowhere near enough. The only other time he'd heard of it was more than a century ago, when he was still a freshly crowned king, considered by his council to be too young by far, his beard just long enough to hold the weight of his battle braids. It was in those early years that he earned his 'unreasonable' reputation, which had nothing to do with his lack of skill in diplomacy, and everything to do with being treated like a mere babe when he'd more than proven himself. He'd disbanded his father's council, every one of them alike in their grey and white beards and their insistence on outdated ideals, then replaced them with one of his choosing. Replaced them with Dwarrow he could trust. 

Many of the elder Dwarrow were set to grumbling at that, resistant to change from his father's lengthy rule. But the world was not the same as before, and Dáin would not bow to their attempts to sway him back, no matter the respect he held for them. 

And then, of course, just as things were nearly settled again a mere fourteen years after King Grór's death and his own ascension to the throne, Dáin received a call for aid. The Dwarrow who'd decided to take up residence in the Misty Mountains, perhaps in the vain hopes that they might find a weakness in the hold Orcs had over Khazad-dûm, had been besieged by goblins. With haste, Dáin led a portion of his troops to bring aid, but Elves met them at the edge of the Woodlands. Not to halt their progress, as first thought, but to give word that the dwarves were safe within their king's realm, awaiting Dáin's arrival. 

Dáin had never met the King in person before, he was barely three when Smaug attacked, and no reason to bother after, but his deeds, or lack thereof, were infamous in the Iron Hills and Dáin was not eager for the introduction. However, in his short years of ruling, he'd found that there were few things a king did that they were eager to do, so his lifted his chin, set his shoulders and led his Dwarrow into the Elvenking's Halls. 

After the meeting, despite it going better than he'd imagined, Dáin spit a string of curses in Khuzdul so foul his guards, who hardly had tender ears, were left wide eyed and trading uncomfortable looks. They asked if he'd been threatened, or his good name slandered by the oversized fairy, but no. King Thranduil was taking surprisingly good care of the Misty Mountain refugees, though they could not be moved until those with the worst injuries were healed enough to travel. He'd given them leave to stay until then, a generous offer by any means. No, it was not King Thranduil's hospitality that soured his mood, not even the edge of disdain that colored the King's words. It was something far worse, and that none of his soldiers could help with. So he shook his head and ordered his people to take stock of the living, the injured and those that had been lost in the mountains. 

He would never speak to question Mahal's glory and wisdom, but there must have been a flaw in his making when his soul was forged. What other reason could there be for this horrible certainty, the likes of which he'd only felt once before, when he'd stared into the gates of Khazad-Dul? Fate made to test Dáin's mettle in this life with blow after blow. Nothing else could explain the bone deep knowledge that King Thranduil, Lord of the Woodlands and heartless curr that had turned his back on Erebor, was his One. 

Dáin shook himself out of the memories and pushed himself to his feet, groaning as his back protested along with a leftover twinge in his side. Enough of this foolishness, he wasn't a dwarf of 52 anymore, and Thranduil had made it perfectly clear how ill-suited they were for each other. He reached up and touched the familiar shape of his pendant through his tunic, tempted to reach in and yank the damned thing off, maybe throw it into the fire and let it be buried in the ashes come morning. As always, the urge passed, leaving a hallow ache he'd learned to ignore in its place. He dropped his hand and made for bed. Sleep might not solve his troubles, but it would at least help make the next day less miserable. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly blown away by how much people are enjoying this story! THANK YOU ALL FOR THE KUDOS AND COMMENTS! I cherish every single one and they make me smile all day long! I'm having so much fun writing this, I mean, holy cow, 10k in four chapters, that's my own personal best! 
> 
> Updates may slow down in February due to me signing up for the Gigolas Big Bang (awww yeah!) but never fear, this is too much fun for me to quit.

 "Captain Tauriel has arrived and is ready to report, my King."

Dírechil announced the news with a bow and Thranduil resisted the urge to sigh. He motioned for her to be brought in with one hand as he finished his wine and set the cup aside. When Dírechil was out of sight, Thranduil let his shoulders slump the slightest bit. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the sharp throb of a headache pulsing behind his eyes. Not since the battle at Gundabad Mountain had he been so weary with grief, and not since Smaug's attack on Erebor had his crown felt so much like a weight. 

Thelyneth had given him the new list of families he needed to give final rites to, and at last, the addition of new names had begun to slow. They would lose more, but for the most part, those who had lost loved ones in battle and had the strength to continue on this long would most likely stand fast. Every night, songs of mourning rose into the air, and it would continue on for a while yet. But his people were strong, they would survive this, as they had every other tragedy before, though it was never an easy task.

No, it was not a lack of belief in his people, or of their strength that bore down on him. Even the deaths, the painfully silent hollows where life should be in his kingdom, were not the only reason he paced his halls as sleep eluded him. He'd been so sure that this foolishness was behind him, buried with bitter words and in the past where it belonged. This was mere lingering startlement, brought on by the sight of a certain dwarf still carrying a certain pendant. A physical reminder of what had clearly been a passing bout of insanity. It was positively, definitely, without a single doubt, _not_ a case of _Calasûl._  
  
Over three thousand years, Thranduil had walked this mortal realm, and never had he felt anything remotely like the whispered descriptions of the Call, a draw upon the one's self to another. Just as its name implied, it pulled at the very soul, a whisper wind that yearned for the warmth of a certain smile or laugh, for the sound of a voice or the welcome sight of familiar features. It was a longing that only grew with time, if such words were to be believed. Not that he would know, because he was not born with the blessing, as few were.

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat drew him out of his thoughts and Thranduil quickly gathered himself, drawing upright, his gaze snapping toward the noise. Tauriel gave a bow and wisely made no mention of his distracted state. Perhaps it was his leniency in dealing with her, or the fact that she was no longer the subject of Legolas' affections, but they had come to an unspoken agreement of sorts. She did not speak out or act in defiance to him, and he allowed her to lead the wagons of food to Erebor and Dale on top of her heading the hunts to Spider nests. It was a punishment after all. True love or no, being surrounded by that many Dwarves at once was not something he'd subject to any undeserving of it.  

"Your report, Captain."

Tauriel launched into the usual, and he was glad to hear Dale was picking up, their own gardens slowly being made and Thranduil was confident that Bard would have a thriving city soon. More dwarves, of course, they poured toward the mountain in a steady stream, drawn back to their home. When the caravans eventually arrived, he would have to place guides to lead those migrating from Ered Luin through his realm, as per the new agreements. What caught his attention though, was her news on the spider nests.

"You say they diminish in numbers since the battle, are they finally being pushed back?"

"I believe that they are unable to spawn as they have, my king. The evil in Dol Guldur is not gone, but it seems to be less powerful, they cannot spread as they used to." Tauriel waved a hand in a sweeping gesture toward the south, where the spider nests had been thickest. "We will soon be able to widen our borders once more, at your command."

Lady Galadriel, of course. Gandalf had mentioned her banishing a  necromancer out of Dol Guldur, but the old wizard had been blustering through ten topics at a time in a rush, so he'd gotten no further details except that the orcs had apparently been using the crumbling fortress as a stronghold. The implication that Thranduil had been blind to the happenings in his own kingdom were insulting in the highest, and he'd lost patience with the wizard at that point. Let the fool try and clear out centuries of darkness that crept its way into the Greenwood and see how well he managed.

"Then a rumor of good news might be proven true. Push the advantage and we will take back our realm from the foul magic that has tainted it for so long. Send word to the other captains, we will not let this opportunity pass."

Tauriel bowed once more, a lightness to her step that Thranduil had not seen since he'd promoted her to Captain of the Guard. "Yes, my king."

She turned to leave, as per usual, but his words stilled her. "And your dwarf? How does he fare?" He stood next to his throne, but made no move to sit as he watched her placidly.

Visibly startled by the question, Tauriel hesitated for a moment before answering, her words cautious. "He fares well, my king, thank you for the concern. His wounds are healing steadily with the improved herbal remedies."

"Are you wed?" He asked, brows rising the slightest bit as she seemed lost for words and looked a little scandalized, the tips of her ears pink.

"I don't see how that could possibly--"

"Still your tongue." He said sharply and her mouth snapped shut. "I do not ask because I wish to know your secrets. But I tell you now, Tauriel, any changes in your... relationship with a prince of the Durin name is very much my business. Your actions at this time are more than a dalliance, and it is not simply your heart at stake, but the state of our kingdom's agreements."

Tauriel swallowed, taking in the news, then nodded and lifted her chin to look him in the eyes. "I will do everything in my power to represent the Greenwood, and no, we are not yet wed."

"And you would bind yourself to a dwarf, knowing their lives are but a brief moment in our own? You would do so knowing his death might bring about yours as well?"

"I would. I do."

Thranduil took in her firm stance, the slight challenge in her eyes, and tipped his head in a slight nod. "Very well. If he promises himself to you, we shall celebrate your binding with a ceremony worthy of this alliance between kingdoms. You will receive my formal blessing in return for the joy I will have at seeing the King Under the Mountain's undoubtedly enthusiastic reaction."

Tauriel gaped at him, then dropped to one knee in a low bow. "I cannot express my thanks enough for such a kindness, my king! You would truly give your blessing?"

"Our people need something to look forward to. A wedding, grand enough to satisfy even dwarven royalty, will be exactly that. It is a service to my kingdom more than simply a favor to you." No need to make it seem as if he liked her after all. "I hope this Prince Kíli is worth the effort. He seemed a more scruff than flesh when I saw him with the rest of his company."

To his surprise, Tauriel did not grow defensive, but laughed, eyes bright when she stood at his motion. "Tis true, he is a scruffy sort. But he manages to make it charming. He is worth everything I can give, my king, and more. He thought me a divine vision when I came to his aid, his body burning with fever and he looked at me as if I were made of starlight."

_Warm eyes that looked at him as if he were the first sun of spring._

She was caught up in her wondering, eyes distant and Thranduil stared, knew that she felt the tug of _calasûl_ by the way she swayed toward the east ever so slightly. In the direction of the Lonely Mountain. "His laughter is unrestrained, a sound of pure joy, and his hands, though wide and rough, are as gentle as can be."

_A deep voice, gruffer than before. Would his laugh be the same? He'd only heard it once before, loud and boisterous and oddly infectious._

Oh no.

Tauriel caught herself and cleared her throat, hands dropping to her sides and holding herself professionally once more with only pink ears to betray her embarrassment. "Apologies, my king."

Thranduil sat hard on his throne, hoping distantly that he managed to make it look more intentional and graceful than it was. It was with a dawning sense of horror that he looked at her and thought of another with red hair, thick and course and calling to him to discover if it was soft to the touch.

He shook his head and dismissed her with a flick of his fingers. She bowed and quickly took her leave, barely out of sight when Thranduil buried his face in his hands and tried to will his heartbeat to slow. It was a fluke, a side effect of Tauriel's overwhelming adoration for her little prince and nothing more. It had nothing to do with the frank compliments all but showered on him nearly a month ago. Nothing to do with the knowledge that a certain insufferable dwarven king would soon be returning to his halls for the first time in over a century, disrupting everything as he had before. Who carried a memento gifted to him by Thranduil himself and had the audacity to call him his One.

Who was so different, yet so similar to the young king with eyes of an old warrior that walked with him in these very halls and earned the affection of an elven king.

Thranduil stood and swept out of the throne room, to his private chambers, where he paced and fumed. He returned again and again to a small wooden box set high on a shelf. In a fit of anger, he snatched it up and yanked it open, ready to throw the contents from the window, but froze. The glint of metal stood out against the dark cloth lining the box, and Thranduil let out a breath as he simply looked at it, polished silver engraved with bold, geometric shapes that blossomed out around the small emerald set in the center. Craftsmanship fit for royalty, a gift worthy of one most beloved.

He closed the box far more gently than he'd opened it, and set it back on the shelf. What use could he have for Dwarven beads?

Making his way to the balcony of his rooms, he looked up, searching for the last lingering light of the stars as the sky began to lighten. Tauriel's arrival had come late in the night, and now it was early morning. When he could no longer see the stars, he watched the sunrise and felt oddly at peace as the bright light of morning broke over the tree line to the east.

"Father, I am pleased to see you've stopped your attempts to wear a path in your floor, but the hour is far too early for you to be brooding." Thelyneth said, voice so like her mother's Thranduil found himself smiling before he could stop himself.

"I am not brooding, merely admiring the sunrise after days on end without so much as a glimpse of the sky." He announced imperiously, not bothering to turn around just yet.

She solved that by joining him on the balcony. Her hair, the same dark shade as her mother's, was drawn back in an array of delicate braids twisted into a crown on her head. She was without her circlet and though her robes were immaculate, her fingers were stained with ink. "I was not aware that admiring required a focus of such intensity."

He sighed, mouth curling up at the corner slightly. "A bold claim from the very one I see scowling at paperwork all hours of the day. You have not slept either, I take it?"

"Yet all you do is bring me more. There is little time to sleep and paperwork deserves every scowl I grace it with. That said, I would gladly check inventory of every spoon and knife in the kingdom over the troublesome dramatics of the political games you love to play."

Games. How insulting.

How Thelyneth had grown to be so unsociable was a mystery to him. She was not normally surly, and had manners to please even the most traditional of elders, but she had no patience for the give and take of politics. Not exactly promising for the heir of his kingdom, but she more than made up for it in every other sense. She might abhor the social interaction (or play-acting at liking one another, as she called it) when outsiders paid visits, but she kept everything running smoothly from the background with a skill that made it seem effortless.

At least he could be grateful that one of his children was content to make an effort towards becoming a ruler. He'd be lost if Legolas was his only hope. He loved his children more than anything, but his son was a curious and flighty sort. One day this kingdom would be too small for him, Thranduil could already see the restlessness in his son, a need to explore the world, and unfortunately, all of its dangers.

Thelyneth looked at him closely when he paused too long in response. "More than grief weighs on your mind, father. You are unsettled, have been ever since you went to Dale."

"Nonsense. There is plenty to worry about and very little of it has to do with Dale. Dwarves however, are a headache all on their own."

She snorted, an indelicate sound few expected from one so regal looking, but it was familiar to Thranduil and he nearly sighed again, knowing she meant to stay and pry until he responded they way she wanted him to. "I know you well, father, and this is not some mere aggravation with the general existence of dwarves. Especially considering your dislike is based on the actions of few and has spread to darken your view of many. We were once allies with Erebor, and we can be again. But that is not the issue at hand."

Was he this pushy? He couldn't be, she must have gotten it from her mother. "You seem to see and know all, then. Tell me, what is it that you think I am at odds with?"

"Your heart."

He spun on her, amusement gone. "What would you know of it? An _erimrad_ that claims to sense such things?"

She just looked smug, as if his response was answer enough and he narrowed his eyes. For someone who claimed to hate 'games' she played them well. "I said nothing of romance, father. I may have no desire to wed, but I can see it well enough in others. That is a topic for another day. I hear King Dáin of the Iron Hills is acting on King Thorin's behalf, is it true?"

He glared at the sunrise now, whatever peace he may have felt at the sight of it earlier long gone. "It is. That dwarf continues to be a thorn in my side, though I admit he is slightly preferable to Oakenshield."

"I don't know every detail, but my memory serves me well, and I recall 'that dwarf' being toured about our Halls and bringing out laughter I had not heard in a very long time. "That dwarf' made you smile, father, why do you avoid even speaking his name?"

Ink-stained fingers closed over his own as Thelyneth watched him with a gentle expression. Perhaps she did see more than he had ever expected, but he could not speak of it, dared not look too closely at this carved out space in his chest. "It is merely the foolishness of a hundred years past."

"A mere blink for us." She said carefully.

"But not for all others. For some it is half a lifetime." The sun was above the trees now, golden light over a sea of red and bronze leaves. It was a nice distraction from this unwanted conversation.

Thelyneth breathed out a soft, "Oh," and stood by him in silence as they watched the world wake.

Later, when it was nearly time for them to resume daily routines, she squeezed his hand one last time and kissed his undamaged cheek. "We do as we must, and another day is upon us."

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. "That it is. I'll distract the messengers and you nap in the library."

She laughed and pulled away. "You're terrible. I shall steal a few hours of rest in my personal office, where I am far less likely to be caught." Her grin faded to a smile and she patted his hand one last time before stepping toward the door. She paused and looked back with a thoughtful expression. "It has been a while since you've put braids in your hair, has it not? Perhaps a new look might help you take your mind off of things."  
  
Thranduil stared at the doorway long after she was gone, chest tight and wondering if he dared. The thought struck a chord in him. Since when had he ever let the opinions of dwarves effect his choices? He would wear what he wished and when he wished it, never mind any possible reaction it might cause from a certain overbearing, loud, disruptive and disturbingly complimentary king!

He curled a lock of pale golden hair around his fingers and considered the possibilities.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on what the Elvish words I've been throwing in are:
> 
>  **anoren** \- 'my sun' (because Thranduil is the biggest sap)  
>  **Calasûl** \- 'call of the wind' (or my butchered attempt at that general meaning at least)  
>  **erimrad** \- literally 'one path' but translates more to 'solitary path' in this context (it's the word I'll be using for asexual characters, including all of the sub-categories under that umbrella. Thelyneth is an aromantic asexual and considering that canon explanations point toward Elves in general being demi-sexual, this is not uncommon or looked down upon.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering why we see so little of Dwarven politics, but more of Elves, fear not! There is a sequel that will be all about Dwarves! I'm saving all of the politics and nitty-gritty of Erebor for that story.

For the first time in his life, Dáin acted the coward. At Khazad-dûm he had picked up without hesitation after his father had fallen and helped lead the Dwarrow to victory, he'd taken on the crown at an age so young that all doubted him and he proved them wrong, he'd faced an army of orcs and trolls that outnumbered his own by far and still emerged victorious. Yet the idea of facing Thranduil in the very same Halls he'd discovered the elf was his One was unbearable.

There were plenty of valid reasons to send an envoy in his place, there was more than enough work to justify staying in Erebor, and no one batted an eye. But Dáin knew, and it grated against everything he was. Still, Balin was the best choice to send, that dwarf knew history and politics better than anyone else they currently had, with enough patience to keep anything too disastrous from happening.

He ran a hand over his beard and sighed. His son's latest missive lay before him on the table and if nothing else could quite lighten his mood, knowing his Thorin had grown enough to hold steady as leader in Dáin's absence did. Dáin had done everything he could to give his heir the knowledge he'd had to carve out for himself, what he'd never had a chance to learn from his father or grandfather before they were gone. And little Thorin took it all in and searched for more to learn. He would be a great leader, already was, and Dáin looked forward to the day he'd see his son wearing the crown. Unlike his kin, Dáin had little desire to rule to his death, but he would give his son as much freedom as he could before he weighed him down with the crown and all of the responsibilities that came with it.

A quick dip and tap of his quill and he scratched out a reply; news of Erebor and those that were returning to it, the current speed of repairs as more hands joined in the helping, and his own plans to return to the Iron Hills in the near future.

He wondered if his Thorin would see right through him, as he had when he was a wee babe, dark cheeks still mostly bare, his body small in the cradle of Dáin's arms. The little one had patted Dáin's cheeks with tiny hands and asked with such a solemn face why he was so sad. Dáin would shake off his grim mood and tease the dwarfling until he was distracted with giggles and trying to escape Dáin's tickling fingers, but even then his boy had a sharp eye and a sharper mind. He'd catch Dáin in a moment of memory, mind distant and chest aching, and stumble over to pat his knee and offer up his collection of carved toys or pilfered sweets to cheer him up.

Dáin chuckled at the thought of his solemn son offering toys that would be tiny in his hands now, the small dwarfling he'd brought home from Thranduil's Halls now grown. Though he suspected, for all of his serious nature, his Thorin still pilfered sweets from the kitchens now and then.

There was a knock at his door and Dáin rolled his now dried parchment and slipped it into the slim, lightweight metal case for the raven to carry later. "Enter!"

Perhaps Thorin, the fool determined to tear his stitches and whom Dáin is beginning to regret naming his son after, had managed to hobble his way to Dáin's rooms.  Wouldn't be the first time, though there was hope that with the immeasurable help of Bilbo and his ability to keep Thorin somewhat bedridden, they wouldn't have a repeat of the 'trail of blood' incident. He'd call Thorin out on it, but he remembered a certain six month stint after being stabbed several times during an orc raid where he'd been so determined to get out of bed he'd ended up spending twice as long in it.

As it were, the visitor was no dwarf at all, but a hobbit. "My apologies, Lord Dáin, I know I'm intruding on what little time you have for rest, but would you have a moment or two for a chat?" It always amused Dáin how polite Bilbo was when he spoke to anyone outside of Thorin's famed company.

He waved Bilbo in. "No bother at all, Master Bilbo, come in and rest yer feet. Is everything alright?"

Bilbo smiled at him and they both settled into the chairs before the fireplace. Dáin offered some spiced wine and when Bilbo shook his head at the offer, shrugged and poured himself a cup. "Thank you, but I am doing quite well, no need for concern. Actually," he did that little quirk of his mouth that Dáin noticed often meant he wasn't quite sure how to word his thoughts. "I was hoping to, ah, ask you the same."

Dáin raised a brow and lowered his drink to stare properly. "You came ta see if I was well?"

Flustered, Bilbo did an odd little shrugging nod. "Yes. Yes I did. Goodness knows there are plenty of reasons to stay and tend to your duties, what with the mountain filling up more each day, but I wondered if perhaps..." Now it was an almost pained expression. Faces seemed to give so much away without a beard to cover much of it, Dáin wondered if it was a normal hobbit thing, or if Bilbo was exceptionally expressive when it came to awkward talks. Speaking of which, a ball of dread was growing in his gut.

"Perhaps you might have a more personal reason for not attending the diplomatic meeting in Mirkwood, and, well, that you also might not have anyone in present company to talk to about it. With the exception of myself." 

Mahal's balls screwed on sideways, Dáin wished he had a stronger drink on hand than wine. Maybe that noxious mushroom brew that was the open secret of the Iron Hills. It might cause vivid hallucinations and a small chance of death, but it'd be preferable to this conversation. "I have no idea what you're talkin' about."

Bilbo just stared at him, one eyebrow rising slowly and Dáin scowled back at him. Well, it was worth a try. "What's it t'you anyhow? Soon as Thorin is hearty and hale once more, I'll be headed back to the Iron Hills, and he'll get to see just how much work bein' a king requires. Not much time for anything else."

Bilbo seemed to consider his words carefully as he smoothed out a wrinkle in his coat. The halfling really did have the oddest mix of dwarven and human clothing that actually fit his small frame without swallowing him whole. When he looked back up at Dáin, there was no judgment or challenge in his eyes. "Thorin explained to me what it means for a dwarf to call someone their One."

"Did he now? Then do tell, Master Hobbit, do ye have some treasure trove of advice that a hundred years of experience couldnae give me?" Dáin asked, leaning back in his chair and motioning for Bilbo to go right ahead and try.

"No, nothing like that." Bilbo insisted, eyes wide. "I wouldn't know anything about the matter, I simply wanted to offer an ear to listen to. It is very forward of me, and I apologize, but I have learned that even when a problem cannot be solved, it at least helps to talk about it."

Talk about it. About the biggest regret he'd been carrying for most of his life, one that only he and Thranduil knew the details of? It was a temptation he'd felt before, and would feel again, but it was not to be. Best not to linger on it when there was so much else to think about.

"Thank you, Bilbo, for yer offer, but I'll be declining it. No point in tryin' to polish coal."

Bilbo tilted his head at the expression, then smiled slightly. "No point picking daisies in winter. I think I understand, sometimes there's just no helping a situation, is there?"

"Aye, that's the way it is. Now, tell me how you managed to get Thorin to explain Ones, Master Bilbo, did he get all flustered an' go ruddy-faced?" Dáin grinned when Bilbo looked away with a little uncomfortable cough and turned a bit pink. Dáin laughed. "Did he stutter?"

"I'll have you know I was asking because it was obvious Kili and Tauriel see nothing but each other whenever she visits, and the topic came up. If he was a bit more... reddish in the cheeks, well, it was probably from the effort of holding back some less then complimentary comments."

Dáin just laughed harder. "I can just imagine! Poor cousin has probably chewed his cheek raw from biting it all back."

Bilbo's smile went fond and he absently touched the small wooden bead clasped to the end of his only braid, a small thing that might be passed off as a simple sign of friendship if Throin hadn't been absolutely blatant and used the traditional four-stranded Durin's braid. His cousin was hopeless, really, and Dáin wondered if Bilbo knew what it really meant. "He does try."

"Aye," Dian agreed and tipped his cup in a small toast before taking drink from it, "that he does."

..............................................................................................

Far to the west, beyond the ocean and past the mortal veil, Nemireth dashed through the dappled light under towering trees. She paid no attention to the beauty around her, focused only on her destination and startling several of the elves taking more leisurely strolls as she raced through the tall grass. At last, she burst past the tree line and into the wide meadow where the Pools of Remembrance were centered. 

Luinhind was already waiting, sprawled on the grass and chin resting on crossed arms as se stared over the edge of the pool. In no time, Nemireth darted around the others peering into the shallow waters and smoothly dropped into a roll that landed her snug against Luinhind's side. "Did I miss anything?" She asked, tucking a few stray hairs behind one pointed ear and grinning at Luinhind's raised eyebrow.

"Nothing so exciting that you needed to go crashing through the woods to see. I'm almost offended at how eager you are." Se replied with a sigh, biting back a smile when Nemireth elbowed sem in the side.

"Hush, you look forward to this nearly as much as I do. Don't pretend you're worried about any feelings I have for my former husband. He's... not easy to be with, but he was my dearest friend. I didn't think he'd ever get a second chance with his fiery Dáin, and I'm not about to miss a moment of it." She'd nearly tripped herself right into the pools from sheer excitement when she'd first dragged Luinhind to see the diplomatic talks in Dale, clutching at ser sleeves and jostling sem every time Dáin said another sly compliment. Luinhind avoided wearing delicate cloth when they made their visits now.

Nemireth peered over the edge of the pool and tried to calm her mind. "Please tell me I didn't run all this way, after being lectured by my father about acting respectable, just to miss out on those longing looks they keep throwing at each other."

Luinhind sighed sincerely this time. "I'm afraid not, my dear. It would seem the only thing powerful enough to dampen this Dáin's determination is knowing that his love could lead to Thranduil's death. He did not join the diplomatic envoy to Thranduil's Halls."

"Thranduil is dramatic and vague, and determined to dig up any seeds of happiness before they have a chance to take root." Nemireth said with a shake of her head, shoulders slumped. "Dáin does not know that distance will make no difference. His death would affect Thranduil whether he is by his side or leagues away." She leaned her cheek against Luinhind's shoulder and ran her fingertips over the swirling blue glow of script inked on dark skin. "Legolas and Thelyneth bring him joy, and he loves them as fiercely as I do, but he is so lonely. It hurts me to see it."

"Hopefully fate is kind to them, or perhaps, just cruel enough to give a kick to the arse. They are doomed if they stay on this path." Se stared at the water to avoid Nemireth's glare. Sometimes optimism just wasn't enough. Ever since Dáin and Thranduil met on the battlefield at the gates of Erebor, Nemireth had been overjoyed, but Luinhind knew there could be no happy ending here. Life simply wasn't that kind.

"Is that so? Perhaps then, we should lay a wager."

"A wager? It would be a fool's bet and you know it." Se tried to wave it off, but Nemireth's expression was unamused. "You're serious about this."

"Serious enough to set the wager at ten honeyed cakes made by the one who loses."

"Hardly a steep price." Se knew se shouldn't have said anything because Nemireth had that glint of mischief in her eyes, the one that had snared sem long ago.

She grinned. "Not if they are made with blue bee honey from the eastern glade."

Luinhind swallowed and weighed the risk. Blue bees were ferocious and few braved their vicious stings but the honey they produced was undeniably the best. "Very well, I wager they will make it, perhaps, to a kiss. If that. But they have too much history, they are too chained to their kingdoms and their duty for this to end any way but tragically."

"You'll regret your dour opinion, love. I wager they not only find a way to be together, but you've not seen how stubborn Thranduil can truly be. He will find a way to stay with Dáin even after death."

Luinhind gaped at her. "Impossible."

She merely smiled back. "We shall see. Now, let's find out who has the pleasure of dealing with a surly Thranduil. I pray he knows better than to throw them into cells this time."

Feeling suspiciously like se'd been tricked into something, Luinhind turned to look into the pool with Nemireth. They calmed their minds as magic washed over them, images and sounds that rose up from the calm, reflective surface to reveal the elven halls.

...............................................................

When the dwarves arrived at the Halls, Thranduil spared a moment to be extremely grateful he had yet to manage to get his hair to hold any of the braids he'd wanted to wear. His children stood with him, and though he couldn't see him, Thranduil could practically hear Legolas trying not to fidget as he tended to do when forced into formalities.  Thelyneth, on his other side, glanced at Thranduil out of the corner of her eye when it was obvious King Dáin was nowhere in this company. He ignored it. It was to be expected, he'd told Dáin exactly how impossible anything between them was, and Dáin had clearly taken it to heart.

Good.

Perfect.

Just like he'd wanted.

He welcomed them into his kingdom, didn't bat an eye when it turned out the envoy in place of Thorin and Dáin was Balin, who happened to be one of the Dwarves he'd tossed into a cell not long ago.  Thranduil held back a sigh and they all made it to the dinner feast without anyone getting into a fist-fight. At least scouts had spotted Bard on his way as well, he would soon join them and this meeting might end well after all.

It was during the meal, one which Balin cheerfully informed him was far more satisfying than the one he'd had in Rivendale (Thranduil couldn't really blame him for that, even he liked a good roast beast now and then) that he discovered Balin was one of the most open information sources he could find. The dwarf only needed a topic, and he would extrapolate on it in to the deepest detail. Some topics were kept secret, which Balin made clear, but everything else, all anyone had to do was ask. He was also far more pleasant company than his king.

Thranduil nearly made it to the end of the meal before his curiosity, and possibly his utter distaste for being anything less than completely in the know, needed to be satisfied. "Master Balin," he said when the main courses had been cleared away and only the wine and honey cakes were left to indulge in. "I would ask that you explain a bit about the meanings of certain braids. They are more than simply differences in design, are they not?"  

Balin took a slow drag of wine and eyed Thranduil as he considered it. When he set his cup down, he turned more toward Thranduil and leaned an arm on the table. Legolas was between them, and his eyes darted back and forth from his father to the envoy. Thelyneth was engaged in a lively conversation with Bard, who had arrived with his children, much to the elves' delight. Thranduil may or may not admit to being fond of them himself.

"That's a bit of a prying question, your highness. Some things we do not share so easily, some I am forbidden to speak of. Is there a reason in particular you'd like to know?"

Thranduil tipped his head in a nod. "There is to be a wedding between Tauriel, Captain of the Guard, and your Prince Kili. I understand your traditions are of utmost importance to your people, as ours are to us. The letter I received in reply to my request for a combined wedding was... tersely worded, but your king agreed."

Balin huffed a soft laugh at the mention of the letter, and Thranduil wondered if his intervention meant previous, less diplomatic, versions had been sent back to be rewritten. "True enough, your highness. And your Captain of the Guard would wear dwarven braids?"

"Yes. As long as the meaning of them is clear. I will not let any of my own carry symbols of unknown meaning, nor would I offer insult by letting her arrive with an incorrect design." That would just be undignified. No, if Thranduil wanted to offer insult, it would be far more pointed than a misplaced lock of hair. Tauriel's hair. She'd better be grateful he's forcing himself to learn this much dwarvish culture in one night for the sake of the peace treaty and her wedding. No other reason.

Balin nodded with a little hum after a moment of thought. "Very well. But only the ones pertaining to courtship and marriage. Let's see, as she'll be marrying the prince, Durin's Braid must be included. After that, there are many options..."

Thranduil watched carefully as Balin explained each and braided together long, flexible flower stems in example. The dwarf carefully noted why and how each version was different long after Legolas lost interest and joined a discussion comparing styles of bows and the best terrain for them with Bard's daughter, Sigrid. Tilda was slumped against Thelyneth's side, nearly asleep, while Bard switched between watching fondly and keeping his son from openly staring at everything, and everyone, around them. Thranduil ignored his daughter's knowing look and memorized all he could before the time for negotiations arrived.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait on this chapter! Hopefully the rest will be posted at a much faster rate. Unbeta-ed for now, as my beta reader is a bit busy with life but once it's done I'll come back and edit any changes needed. Thanks as always to the AWESOME people taking the time to leave kudos and comments, I love you all to bits!

Orcs. 

Dáin had hoped the foul creatures would have taken more time to rally themselves after the final tide-turning and crushing defeat that made them flee back into the ground when they were driven from Erebor and Dale. The shrieking, frantic swarm of them that descended on his caravans proved otherwise. 

He was almost glad for it. Nothing cleared the mind quite like fighting for your life. There was no time for thoughts or memories or brooding, everything was narrowed down to singular moments. Strike. Block and swing. Dodge. Keep breathing. 

He stomped on the neck of an orc that fell but still moved and knocked another off balance with his shield. Marda, just to his left, finished it off with a jab of her glaive. They tapped weapons with shared grins in the brief moment before the ranks closed in again. 

A skull caved under the force of his hammer, and he ripped it free to swing again before the body could land, but a goblin leapt from its hiding place behind a larger orc and flung something small and wrapped in a stained cloth toward his face. Dáin threw up his free hand to block as his hammer deflected a sword swinging in from the side, belatedly hoping it wasn't some kind of acid. It wasn't unheard of for orcs to throw burning stomach fluids still wrapped in the animal's skin. 

Instead, the small bundle exploded in a cloud of rags and powder that blinded Dáin and burned all the way down to his lungs when he took a breath. The effect was immediate, and his hammer fell from numb fingers as his limbs seemed to grow leaden. The stroke of a sword was dodged by chance as he dropped heavily to the ground. The clash of weaponry and the cries of his soldiers calling out for their king were the last things he heard. 

Marda saw her king fall and bellowing a warcry, she doubled her efforts, determined to make her way back to his side and keep the enemy from killing him. There were just so many of the blasted creatures! There seemed to be two to take place of every one that died. A goblin was tugging at Dáin's legs, two more orcs closing in on him as well, and Marda snarled, snatched up the knife sheathed on her thigh and lifted it to throw. 

The ground beneath them all rumbled, then exploded upward. Marda and everyone else went flying, massive chunks of rock airborne with them. She landed hard, rolling to the side just in time to avoid a boulder that slammed into the ground where she'd been, and she rolled to her feet only to stare up through the raining grit at the gaping, jagged-toothed maw of a rock wyrm. 

It rose from the tunnel it created and then doubled on itself and dove for Dáin's armored body, pinchers spread as it dropped on the king. Then, faster than anything that big should be able to move, it vanished back into its hole with Dáin and several orcs clasped in its grip. 

Stumbling toward the opening, Marda and several others fit enough to move made to go after them, but the tunnel began to collapse in on itself. She yelled in rage and spun to find any orcs to take her anger out on, but even they were gone, fleeing back to the pits they'd crawled from. Dwarves were at the rubbled remains of the tunnel, hauling up stones and tossing them aside, but she could tell it would be no use. 

"Brothers! Sisters! Our King has been taken!" They looked to her, as Dáin's general, she now held the highest rank here. "Our fastest uninjured runners will take news to Erebor, I will head for Iron Hills. The rest will bring the injured home."

"But we must follow, we can track the orcs before it's too late!" A young soldier cried out and Marda looked toward him. 

"And then we would die. We are outnumbered, and we would do more harm than good." She pointed at the collapsed length of ground leading to the east. "There are few places the orcs can gather in such forces, and we will need the strength of our people to crush them. Now, move swiftly and we may just make it in time to save him!" 

Orders were given, tasks divided and the bodies of the injured and dead readied for travel. Marda was off as soon as all the tasks were divided, head tucked low as she glared into the distant grey horizon of the Iron Hills. She ran as fast as she could because she knew she was right. the only Orc strongholds to the east were Dol Guldur and Khazad Dum, and both meant travel through the Mirkwood. 

She would see to it that King Dáin was found, but she would need a lot more allies first. 

......................

Thranduil looked over the inventory and budget Thelyneth had carefully written out, reading through the added notations for any new or changed details. Thelyneth was seated beside him, considering the cloth samples and designs being presented to her by the Master Tailor, picking out the best colors and occasionally adding a thoughtful hum or considering noise while Thranduil spoke. 

"I refuse to hold a wedding in that cave of a castle, and the King under that dreary mountain will not agree to have it here, so the only option is the field between Erebor and Dale. Acceptable, I suppose, the dwarves from the Blue Mountains shall be arriving soon enough, it means we'll have suitable space for all. I will be sending out teams to make sure the land is cleansed and ready for the ceremony." 

He frowned at the parchments, annoyed at the amount of concentration it took to take it all in. Sleep had been elusive before, in more stressful situations, why did it weigh on him so much now? Thorin was healed enough to step up and lead his people, as well as take his place in the diplomatic talks. That had to be it, a meeting that unpleasant must be smothering any chance at relaxation he might have. Oakenshield's overbearing presence would, of course, be preferable to Dáin's. The Iron Hills would have their king back any day now. 

He rubbed his chest absently, easing away the hint of an ache without much thought. Next to him, Thelyneth's expression turned concerned. "Are you alright, father?"

"I'm fine." He waved away the question with a lazy motion, ready with a question about her budgeting priorities if she pushed it further, but a commotion deeper within his Halls caught their attention instead. 

The soft _pat-pat-pat_ of leather on polished stone and wood was heard before an elf in ranger's clothing came dashing through the entryway, taking long strides as she ran. The curved wood of her prosthetic legs flexing under the weight of her steps. Both were the shape of a curved leaf made of layered strips of bark, taken with permission from an elder tree. Strong as steel yet incredibly flexible. The tips, padded with soft leather, kept her movements silent while scouting the woodlands. "Highness! Your Majesty! There has been an attack!"

Slowing as she approached Thranduil, she tapped her fist to her chest and bowed, though her hair was windblown and her eyes were frantic. Her sleeve was tailored short on the other side, where he arm had never grown beyond a hand's length in her youth. "Apologies for my rudeness, my king, but this is like nothing I've seen in our lands before."

"Calm yourself, Scout Celegil, and tell me what has happened." Thranduil ordered, surprised at the normally composed scout's panic. She'd been a survivor of several wars and a steadfast presence among his people, not an easy elf to rattle. Could the spiders have returned in force, or had the orcs in hiding launched an assault? Had something new taken hold in his realm? He waited with false patience as she nodded and gathered herself, straightening to look him in the eye. 

"Orcs, Your Highness. They've carved a path through the south eastern sector and attacked the royal Dwarven escort headed toward the Iron Hills." 

King Dáin's travelling party. 

"Impossible." Thranduil said, but it sounded distant to his own ears, his eyes looking past Celegil's face toward the southeast as if he could look through the walls and see for himself. "How could orcs do so without our knowing? It would take them months, at the very least, to forcibly make such a path." 

Celegil swallowed, lips pale with the force of pressing them tightly together. "They had a terra-worm, You Highness." 

"A terra-worm." Absently, he felt Thelyneth's hand cover his own, not realizing until then how tightly he was clutching the arm of his throne. He'd thought the beasts were only controlled for a short while by the orcs, and had returned to their nest deep within the earth after the battle. No wonder the orcs had been able to move so fast and do so much damage before even his scouts had been able to do more than watch it happen. "And what of the Dwarven king?" 

"I saw it happen, I had been following the path of the terra-worm." Celegil said, voice low, as if she couldn't bear to say it too loudly. "The Dwarven king was hit with a poison or drug of some kind, a white powder, it felled him, but I do not think it killed him."

It was taking a concentrated effort to breathe calmly, and while no one else seemed to notice it, Thelyneth's hand tightened over his own. Celegil's eyes darted away as if she couldn't quite look him in the face anymore as she continued. "They used the terra-worm to finish the attack, surprising the dwarves."

No. He couldn't be, such a bright and obnoxiously loud presence, all overbearing warmth and refusal to back down couldn't possibly be snuffed out yet. He didn't want to listen, but Celegil wasn't done. 

"King Dáin has been captured by the orcs."

There was a moment of utter stillness as she finished, where they waited to see his response, and Thranduil sat, still as stone while his heart skipped a beat then thumped hard and began to race. Fear burned into a white hot fury, the likes of which he had not felt in an age. Celigil, unnerved by the simmer of barely leashed magic beneath her king's cool indifference, offered one last piece of information. Thranduil was a king she'd served under for centuries, long enough to be familiar with his every tell, but this was different. "The remaining dwarves sent out runners to give word to Erebor and the Iron Hills. They will send troops." 

"And they will never make it in time." Thranduil replied, his focus narrowing to a single goal. "Do not hinder them when they come, but it will be over by the time they arrive."

"Father?" Thelyneth asked, her expression of concern shared with Celegil, who spoke at the same time. "Highness?"

Everyone in the chamber had fallen quiet when Celegil had arrived, and now they all waited, servants, messengers, guards and the master tailor, for Thranduil's orders. He stood with a careful grace that spoke of tightly reigned anger and the elves closest to him, save Thelyneth, stepped back. "These orcs, did they come from Dol Guldur?" 

Celegil nodded. "Yes, Your Highness." 

"Then the time has come to crush that miserable tower into dust." 

Thelyneth rose as well. "We would return to battle so soon? Father, let me go in your place, our people need you here." 

Thranduil turned to her, resting a hand against her cheek. "No, they need a leader with unclouded judgment, and I need to leave my people under someone I trust to lead them well if I cannot return. My Thelyneth, you must stay." He lifted the crown from his head, placing it gently on her carefully braided hair as she stood watching him with wide eyes. 

"Father." She whispered, stunned.

He raised an eyebrow. "Trust me, I have no plans to perish, but someone must lead in my absence. Consider it practice for the next age."

Thelyneth huffed a sound more disbelief than amusement, but the worry in her expression had faded some. Thranduil pressed a kiss to the center of her forehead before turning back to Celegil, the hot anger tempering into a cold hate that settled over him like a cloak to replace the mantle of his crown. "Spread out the scouts, report any other orc activity you see. If you make contact, kill them." 

"Yes, Your Highness." Celegil bowed deeply once more, then dismissed, left the chamber as quickly as she'd arrived but now with more purpose than panic in her movements. 

He motioned a guard forward. "Gather all who know how to Shadow Walk, those who wish to take this risk will join me, and those who have grieving families or cannot risk this task will return to their duties." The guard bowed and hurried to comply. 

More orders were given, sending elves scurrying to comply as quickly as possible and it wasn't long before Thrandruil stood at the gates of his Halls, armor donned and accompanied by ten of his oldest and most well-trained guards, all of them armed to the teeth. He was grateful for Legolas' ceaseless need to explore, his son leading scouting parties in the north and unable to argue for the right to join in this. Legolas had many skills, but magic wasn't one of them, and Shadow Walking was magic that took decades, if not centuries to master. 

Thelyneth wasn't far behind him. "Father, even with the speed of Shadow Walking, you'll be far outnumbered. The magic in Dol Guldur disguises their numbers." 

"Then the magic of this realm will disguise ours." He focused inward, reaching down into the earth with his magic until he felt the flowing tug of the Enchanted River and mouthed the words of a spell he'd learned from his own father, and one he hoped to teach Thelyneth one day. Out of sight, mist rose from the river, rolling through the forest toward the south and spreading the river's disorienting effect to all who were unwelcome in the forest. By the time Thranduil and his guard arrived, not even Dol Guldur would be untouched. The Necromancer was gone, and his fading spells would be no match for the ancient enchantments of the Greenwood. 

Thranduil withdrew his magic from the earth, letting the spell continue on its own. A motion of his hand and his guard were ready to move out. Thelyneth gave him a last long look before dipping her head slightly in a nod. "Take care. I shall ready the Halls for your successful return. And, father," the corner of her mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile, "I look forward to meeting your dwarf." 

He didn't answer, instead drawing his twin blades as he lead his small force of soldiers forward at a run. The moment they passed into the darker shadows under the arch of overhead branches, the darkness seemed to swallow them and they vanished with nothing more than a stirring of leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Stop by my [Tumblr](http://paper-kraken.tumblr.com/) to say hi or trade headcanon ideas. I'm always happy to chat!


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